A parking lot,
mostly empty spaces
punctuated by
weeds, fenced
and locked,
a hollow,
hollowed place
A plaque encased
in concrete:
a house where a
boy was born,
a house next to
a girl’s school
so that the
first sounds
he could
remember were
the shouts of
girls playing games
and more:
his sisters
doted, for all he had
was sisters and
all they did was
dote
His attention
focused elsewhere,
on grand plans
and schemes of boys
and publishing a
newspaper and
stealthily
playing on the school grounds
until girls’
shouts, outraged this time,
blared from
windows
and he heard
them later,
always coming
and going,
seeing them a
Renaissance painting,
listening to the
coming and going
in the fading
afternoon.
Photograph: The block on Locust Street in
St. Louis where T.S. Eliot’s boyhood home stood.
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